Anything
by Phelgebor
Summary: Because we all wanna know about that electricity thing.


ANYTHING

Because we all wanna know about that electricity thing.

They are right behind him. He is running like a rabbit, running with everything he has, and it is not enough. He can't shake them far enough to lose them, they are always one twist, one dash behind him.

He hasn't eaten in days, he is weak from hunger and lack of sleep. Adrenaline and desperation have given him speed, but at any moment it is going to burn out and he will fall.

Maybe they'll kill him this time.

Seven is a lot of times to risk death. Or worse.

The last time, they almost did it. He still has the scars, on his body, and inside his head. He won't survive that again, even if they leave him alive.

Please, he thinks. Please.

Something.

_Anything._

The door opens as he is running by it. A house or a shop, he doesn't even know which, but he hears a lock undo itself and then the door is open. A door. With a lock. It is a place to hide, a place they can't, might not follow, and the only thing barring it is a woman. Older than him but not old, pale skin, long black hair, a red cloth tied around her neck. When he dives toward her, her blue eyes flash in warning and she holds up one hand. Suddenly there is a knife in it.

'Stop right there, sugar,' she says.

Silky voice, not playing.

Anders doesn't care. He is not playing either. This is life or death.

'Templars,' he gasps out. 'Right behind me. Help me. _Please!'_

She'll likely guess he is a mage- why else would they be hunting him? But maybe she will sympathize. Some of the people outside the Circle do- he's learned that.

Some of them have even helped him.

For a moment, he thinks she will too, but then she shakes her head. 'Sorry, cupcake. Can't get involved.'

She starts to shut the door. The knife disappears into her vest, he sees regret in her eyes and knows what it is for. She's going to let him die. In a moment the door will close, and the Templars will turn that corner.

_No._

Last glimpse of red, and her black hair. The door is shutting.

Anders shoves a shoulder into it before she can pull it home, keeping it open a crack.

'They'll kill me,' he says into the gap. Into her face, inches from his. 'Or worse. Please, just hide me. Just until they leave. I can pay you, I can-'

She raises her brows. 'With what?' It is obvious, looking at his filthy, ragged robe, his empty hands, that he has nothing to pay with.

He could threaten her, but she has the knife and he doesn't.

What will it gain him? Nothing.

He will not call the lightning for this woman. The Templars, maybe, but not her. She has done nothing to him but turn her back.

He would have to kill all the world, if he would kill her for that.

He hears the sound of metal against metal, the gasping of hurried breaths in concert. Booted feet. They are coming.

He sees her hear them too. He is quivering like a livewire, she is still calm.

He looks at her, desperate, and she looks back. He sees another hint of regret in her eyes, at the corners of her lush mouth.

Will she save him?

No. She shakes her head almost sadly. 'Why should I stick my neck out? Templars got big shiny swords, and they don't know how to smile at a girl like me. I'm not looking to bleed for you, boyo. You might be pretty, but you're not that pretty.'

Why?

She wants to know why. Why she should save him.

What is he worth?

What he has always been worth.

'Because I can do this.'

One hand in her hair- thick and dark and straight, much nicer to the touch than Ser Amory's, almost as nice as Karl's. One hand on her breast. Sparks crawl over his fingertips, called up with a hint of will. They pass through the weave of her clothing to find the hidden conductivity of her skin beneath.His mouth on her mouth, silencing her sudden startled gasp.

Aroused, offended, angry?

Quick, just a moment of tongue- she tastes like honey and alcohol, not what he expected, nice and then he pulls away, pushes her away when she starts to sway after him.

Eyes on eyes and then her hand locks around his wrist, jerks him into the room.

The door closes.

She turns the lock with her eyes still on his.

The knife is back, suddenly. Its point rests over his heart. He doesn't breathe.

'Do you think I'm a whore?' she asks him.

'No… No, I… Please…'

Please don't hurt me.

He doesn't have to say it. She can see it in his eyes, in the way he is trembling. The adrenaline is gone, he catches at the wall to stop himself from falling.

Black sparkles dance across his vision.

'Sorry…' he manages.

'S'blood,' the woman mutters. The knife vanishes again and her arm comes around his shoulders, holding him up. He almost slumps against her, stops himself.

She's still holding his wrist with her other hand.

Outside, the jangle of plate.

Anders jerks his head up. His whole body is stiff with terror. They are here. And he is not safe. She knows he is a mage. He is helpless now. Her hand feels like a manacle.

He should have kept running. Should have fought them... he could have called up enough lightning to burn one of them at least.

They would have killed him.

He would be better dead.

'They want you, boy?' she asks him. 'What will they give me for you, hmm?'

When he instinctively jerks to free himself, her hand tightens. 'What will _you _give me? You said you'd pay.'

'Anything.' His voice is hoarse and ragged. Barely above a whisper.

'Anything, hmm? I've never heard a Templar offer _that.'_

She lets go of him abruptly. 'Stay here. Don't move.'

He doesn't move, until the knock comes on the door. Hard knock, mailed fist on wood.

His body jerks once then, but he doesn't run. There is nowhere _to _run. He closes his eyes and waits.

He hears her open the door. Hears her speaking to the Templar. Her words slide off his mind like raindrops off a windowpane.

He does not even come back to himself until he feels her hands on his cheeks. Skin on skin, shocking and intimate. Rough palms, callused. Warm.

'Wake up, pretty boy,' she says. 'Your friends are gone.'

'They're not my friends.'

'They said you're an apostate. Are you?'

'Yes.'

'A maleficar?'

'No.'

'Did you really escape from Kinloch Hold?'

'Yes.'

Yes or no questions are easy. He is still shaking, but he is beginning to calm down. The Templars are gone. He is not safe- never safe- but he is still free. Still breathing.

'Thank you,' he says. Opening his eyes. '_Thank you.'_

'It's going to take more than that.' Matter of fact. He blinks, too dazed and shaken to comprehend, until he sees her looking him up and down.

'Not too bad,' she says. 'A little scrawny, but pretty hair. Pretty _eyes.'_

Everybody loves his eyes. Even the Templars- No.

Not going to think of that.

Not going to think of Ser Amory, Ser Mikal, Ser Athelric, Ser Rylock…

He thinks of Karl instead. Karl loved his eyes. Said they were the color of amber. Kissed him when he was drunk on stolen wine, kissed him until he was drunk on Karl's mouth.

It is not a good idea, in the Circle, to have something you cannot bear to lose.

He can lose this. He has before.

'What do you want?' he asks her. 'I promised you anything. I meant it.'

He starts to move toward her, she puts her hand up, stops him. 'I can stand to feed you first. Are you hungry?'

Hungry?

He is starving.

She gives him bread. With honey. Cold lamb. Cheese. A jar of cold tea flavored with mint, another of honey mead. He eats until he feels sick, stops suddenly, shaking, and almost heaves it all back up again.

'Easy,' she says. Proprietary look, but he doesn't mind, can't mind when her food is heavy in his belly and her door shields him from Templars.

The mead is making his head swim, but it burns in his stomach like salvation.

'Sorry,' he says.

'When was the last time you ate?'

'Two… Three days ago. I think.'

She takes the rest of the food away, lets him sit for as long as he wants. He looks at his hand, it is barely shaking now. He feels restored, can already feel his body burning through the fuel it has been given, devouring it, rebuilding itself.

He is not broken.

He will do whatever it takes to be free.

Anything, he said.

But her anything will not be the Templars' anything. Will not be Ser Amory's, Ser Mikal's.

She is not a Templar. She is not a mage. She is free.

And so is he.

He stands up slowly, flexes his hands. He feels stronger. The sickness is gone. All that running, and it only took a bit of food to fix him up. Who would have thought?

She is watching him, careful azure eyes, wry smile.

'Already?' she asks. 'You recover fast.'

'I do,' he says.

'Must be a mage thing. Bet it comes in real handy.'

He knows what she is saying. 'It does.'

She looks him up and down again. 'Bet you have a nice body under those rags. Skinny, yeah, but nice broad shoulders. Am I making you uncomfortable, sugar?'

'No.'

'How old are you?' Serious question this time.

'Old enough,' he says.

'Twenty? Twenty-one?'

Even he isn't sure.

'How old are you?' he counters.

Her lush lips quirk upwards. 'Old enough to know better,' she says. 'Young enough to do it anyway. What's your name?'

He can't answer that one either, but he tells her the closest thing.

'Anders.'

'That thing you did, with the sparks. Was that a mage trick?'

'Yes.'

'Bet you got more.'

'I do.'

'Anything.' She says it slowly. Savoring the word. 'I think I'd like to try that anything of yours.'

'What do you want me to do?'

'Come here. Kiss me.'

He gets up, takes the two steps that bring him to her.

She looks up at him, tilts her head to the side. Waiting.

He puts his hand into her hair again, closes his fingers to make a fist. Leans down slowly, watches her eyes widen. Hears her breath catch.

Breathes out just a little as he drops his mouth to hers.

She makes a small, hungry sound and opens under him, he swallows it, and her. Open-mouthed kiss, just enough tongue to tease her. When she chases him, he pulls back, when she stops he comes forward again.

It would seem tentative except for the fact that it is obvious that he knows exactly what he is doing. When she starts to make small urgent noises, he gets more aggressive, pressing into her, gripping the hair harder.

At last she gasps and pulls her mouth away. 'Enough,' she says. 'Before you make a woman of me right here.'

He is breathing a little hard, too. He feels slightly dazed. Maybe just the exhaustion catching up with him, but there is enough of him left for this.

She puts her hand on his cheek, drags her fingers through his stubble to the corner of his jaw. 'You have beautiful bones,' she says. Cups his chin and nuzzles his mouth. Sighs. Pulls back and shakes her head. 'Andraste's flaming tits, boy, where did you learn to kiss like that? The Circle?'

'Yes.'

'What else did you learn there?'

He holds out his hand, and suddenly the skin is crawling with small lightnings.

'This.'

'Does it hurt?'

'No.'

'Can I touch it?'

He brings his hand close to hers. The sparks jump from his skin to hers, she gasps. It doesn't sound like pain.

When the lightning fades, she looks up at him. Sultry eyes.

'What else?'

There is a small cut on her left hand, between the thumb and first finger. He takes her hand in his, runs his own thumb over the wound. Blue light curls around their joined fingers and she gasps again. The cut is gone. 'That,' he says.

'Pretty boy.' All serious now. 'Anders. Kiss me again.'

He does. Kisses her mouth, slow and gentle, then harder. Puts his hands on her ribs, runs them up her sides until his knuckles brush the bottom swell of her breasts.

'Oh, yes,' she says. Leans back in the chair, giving him more access.

He opens her vest, as her breathing picks up. Her skin is misted with sweat in the v of her linen shirt, its whiteness pinkening. He unlaces the shirt, bares her breasts. She's not wearing anything else. Nice breasts, full, with hard, erect nipples. When he touches her, she moans and tilts her head back further, until it rests against the wall.

Lightning crackles on his fingers. He spreads them on her skin, palms her, presses down and she cries out.

Her back arches.

He knows how to do this. He leans down over her, kisses her again, pressing her against the chair back. His hands are full of her breasts. She whimpers under his mouth. 'Yes,' she says. 'Yes, yes.'

He nuzzles her neck, drags his mouth lower, kisses the swell of bosom that his hands don't cover. Open mouth, his tongue on her skin.

More electricity.

Her stomach muscles tighten as she arches her back. The shirt doesn't cover much anymore. There is a scar beside her navel, looks like a knife-wound. He bends his head to lick it and now she fists both hands in his hair. The string tying it into a short tail comes loose and it falls around his face, blinding him.

He slides lower still, until he is kneeling on the floor in front of her.

'Look at me,' she says. He looks up at her, and she draws in her breath sharply. 'Say it now,' she tells him. 'What you'll give me.'

For a second he wonders what she wants him to say, then he knows. 'Anything,' he says.

She's wearing leather pants. They lace like her shirt. He undoes the laces, pulls them open. He can see the curls low on her belly, and he can smell her now, musky and warm.

Nice.

Not like Ser Amory. Ser Mikal. Ser Athelric.

Ser Rylock wasn't bad, except when she made him beg. This one won't make him beg. She might even beg him, if he is good enough.

He is good enough. He knows that much.

He bends down.

She's already gasping, her belly muscles quivering and jumping. When he tongues her, she yips like a Mabari.

He is good enough that she begs.

'Please,' she says finally. 'Please, please, please. Maker, Maker, Maker. So sweet, so _sweet.'_

When she comes, she pulls his hair. He lets her catch her breath, and then the electricity arcs between his fingers and she comes again, hard. This time she screams aloud. If the Templars were still around that would have brought them, he thinks.

Half-naked and disarrayed, she looks down at him and smiles. 'You… deliver,' she says between breaths. 'If you ever… need a place to hide, come... see me. Understand, mageling? I'd ask you to stay, but… I know you won't.'

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Messy, but who has time to wash? He's a fugitive.

'I can't.'

Maybe she has more of that bread, he thinks as he gets up from his knees. He is hungry again.

Maybe she has something he can take with him, so that he won't starve on the road. If he had something, then maybe he would make it.

She seems to read his mind. 'You need anything from here, take it, mageling. I think I owe _you._' He nods, tries to smile, manages halfway decently.

She's putting her clothes together, fingers shaking just a little on the laces.

When he looks around, helpless, she gets up, puts some things together in a bag for him. Even some coins- he sees her slip the small pouch in with the rest of the things, and thinks he should protest- does she think _he's _a whore?- but he stays silent.

He needs the money. Maybe he is a whore after all.

Or maybe he is just desperate.

She hands him the bag.

'If you need a place to hide, sleep for a few nights, a few meals, I know one,' she says. 'Those things you can do, you could earn some coin. They'd keep you safe there. Not permanent, you understand, but for a few days, make a little money, take the edge off…'

'Where?' he asks.

'Place called the Pearl. Ask for Sanga.'

'A brothel?'

'They won't make you do anything you don't want. They won't care that you're a mage. All kinds at the Pearl, and no Templars. 'Cept the kind that don't tell. That electricity thing… That was _nice. _You could make coin with that.'

It's an idea.

'Maybe I will,' he says. 'Thank you.'

'Keep running, pretty boy,' she advises. 'You run far enough, they can't find you.'


End file.
